


Telling of Tragedies

by PhoenixGryffin



Category: Hamlet - Shakespeare, Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: Coping, Crossover, Gen, Grief, Post-Canon, Tragedies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-25
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-25 18:06:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3819883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixGryffin/pseuds/PhoenixGryffin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Horatio nods briefly. Benvolio’s quite similar to him, really. Both of them had lived through terrible things. Both of them had lost friends—<i>best</i> friends. And yet here both of them were, still making sure everyone knew what had actually taken place—still telling of tragedies.</p><p>Written for ambrose-bierce as part of the Bard's Birthday Exchange; prompt was “Hamlet/Romeo and Juliet, Benvolio meets Horatio”.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Telling of Tragedies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ambrose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ambrose/gifts).



After it’s all over, he decides to travel.

He doesn’t know exactly why he wants to leave in the first place, really. Maybe his desire to leave stems from a need to get away from the ghosts (imagined, yes, but also possibly real ones as well) that haunt the place. Maybe it stems from a need to get away from the pressing questions that he’s asked at every single retelling of the story. They do get draining, after all. 

Either way, he knows he can't take another day in the claustrophobic castle environment. There are too many memories there, too many ghosts. 

He's told Hamlet's story, told it over and over again to audience after audience. By now, everyone in the kingdom's heard it, as well as quite a few people outside. If Horatio had his way, he'd tell the story as many times as he could, but people understandably get tired of hearing the same thing over and over and over again. There isn't really anyone left to tell. There isn't really anything left for him to do here.

So Horatio decides to set off on his own.

He briefly considers returning to Wittenberg to complete his studies, but decides against it just as quickly; too many ghosts there also. No, he needs somewhere he's never been before, somewhere where there aren't any painful memories, somewhere where he can fall asleep without being constantly plagued by nightmares. That'd be nice.

He doesn't believe such a place exists, not really, but what else is there?

Finally, Horatio makes up his mind to travel to Italy. Money isn’t a problem; Fortinbras, a sympathetic gleam in his eye, is more than happy to oblige Horatio's request for funds. He goes above and beyond the request, in fact, giving Horatio more than double what he'd asked for. It ends up being more money than Horatio has ever had in his life.

To Hamlet, Horatio thinks, it would have looked like nothing, simply a small handful of coins. But of course Hamlet isn't here to scoff at the funds. He hasn’t been here for many months now, but it still hurts waking up and knowing that Hamlet’s not here, that he _can’t_ be here no matter how hard Horatio wishes it to be so, because he’s _gone_.

Horatio decides that he needs to stop thinking about what Hamlet would do. He's _told_ Hamlet’s story, told it again and again just like Hamlet had wanted. But the part of his life as the prince’s friend and confidant is over now. He did his job. He did what Hamlet asked, and he did it well.

As of now, he’s got to find a new purpose, no matter how terrifying the idea is.

So that's why Horatio eventually finds himself lurking rather nervously outside an Italian tavern, unsure whether or not to go in. He's been in a few taverns before, back in the day, but that had been a long time ago. Besides, he'd always been with Hamlet then.

Now he's utterly alone.

A stranger who clearly wants to enter the place glares at Horatio, and Horatio realizes he’s blocking the entrance. He considers simply leaving, but decides against it; he’d look ridiculous. Besides, the whole reason he’d come here had been to start afresh, to escape the ghosts, and that won’t happen if he simply goes back to his room and broods like he has been doing for the past week.

Taking a deep breath, Horatio steps into the tavern and is immediately overwhelmed by all the chaos; the places he’d been to with Hamlet had primarily been frequented by college students more eager to study than get engaged in violent debates, and Horatio had liked it that way. This place, however, seems to be a bit rougher around the edges. People are shouting, throwing things; there’s a sound of glass breaking. Horatio immediately regrets his decision to enter and promptly heads back for the exit.

Before he can get there, he’s pushed out of the way by another young man who clearly seems to be in a hurry to get out of the tavern. He doesn’t seem to be under the influence of any alcohol at all, but one never can tell what drunkenness is like in foreign countries.

“Not one for this sort of environment either?” Horatio says wryly once they both exit. Normally he wouldn’t have said anything in a situation like this, but he hasn’t properly talked to anyone for what feels like months now, and he’s absolutely _desperate_ for some form of human contact.

The young man only stares at him; too late, Horatio realizes that he’s spoken in Danish instead of Italian. He repeats the question in the correct language, but this time the young man simply shakes his head and ruefully grins.

“I wanted to get a drink,” the young man replies, “but I don’t have the constitution for such places.”

“Nor do I, it seems,” says Horatio. “Though I’ve never really been one for drink in the first place.” There’s an unbidden memory of Hamlet on the castle balcony, ranting about the Danish inclination towards drunkenness, but Horatio forces himself to mentally push it away. It’s just a memory now. That’s all.

“I’m not, either, I suppose,” says the young man, “but I’m sorely tempted to try it. They say alcohol helps.”

“With what?”

The young man simply bites his lip and doesn’t respond. Horatio decides not to press the young man, instead wordlessly falling into step next to him. The two of them make their way past another building before the young man finally speaks.

“If you don’t mind my asking, who are you? You don’t seem to be from around here.”

“I’m not,” replies Horatio. “You can call me Horatio, and I’m from Den—Germany, I mean. Germany. I went to university there—well, I suppose I’m still enrolled at the University of Wittenberg now that I think about it, but suffice it to say that I am taking a bit of a break from schooling for a while.”

“Felt like playing truant?” the young man says, smirking faintly. Without warning, Horatio’s reminded of Hamlet, smiling hollowly, saying _I would not hear your enemy say so_. The pain of the memory is sharp, knifelike, and Horatio looks away from the young man in order to better hide his true emotions.

“Something like that,” he murmurs, crossing his arms over his chest as the two of them pass by an alleyway. “And you? You’re local, I presume?”

The young man nods. “Benvolio Montague. Yes, I _am_ a Montague, don’t look so shocked—although you’re not from around here, you wouldn’t even know who the Montagues are. Never mind.”

“Who are the Montagues, then?” asks Horatio, desperate to keep the conversation as far away from his own affairs as possible. “Should I be worried?”

Benvolio laughs bitterly. “Oh, no. Not anymore, that is. We’ve played rather nicely with the Capulets for a while now.”

“Capulets?”

“Sorry. Rival family. We couldn’t stand them for _years_. To tell you the truth, I’m not quite sure why we even hated them so much in the first place,” Benvolio says, voice lowering a bit. “It was so utterly pointless in the end.” He glances over at Horatio, but Horatio, unsure what to say, doesn’t respond, so Benvolio continues speaking. “People—well, people died. My best friend—he wasn’t even a part of either family, but he—” Benvolio breaks off, apparently unable to continue, and Horatio glances over at him; he’s staring firmly at the ground, a coping mechanism that Horatio knows well.

“My best friend died as well, a while ago,” begins Horatio before he’s fully aware of what he’s saying, and Benvolio turns to face him. They’ve stopped walking now, both of them; they’re in what seems to be a town square that’s presided over by two golden statues. “It wasn’t due to a feud or anything. He was poisoned during a fencing match.”

“Poisoned?” whispers Benvolio.

Horatio nods grimly. It hurts, talking about it, but it’s also strangely comforting; this is the first time he’s ever told Hamlet’s story to anyone outside of Denmark. “His uncle the king was the one who did it.”

“A member of his own _family_?”

Horatio nods again. “I—well, his uncle had murdered my friend’s father earlier. My friend found out about it,” he says, deciding not to mention the ghost right away, “and I suppose his uncle wanted to silence him. I was there. When my friend died, that is.”

“So was I,” says Benvolio softly. “With _my_ friend, I mean. He was stabbed to death, and I couldn’t save him. A little while later, my cousin committed suicide over some Capulet girl he’d barely known for any time at all. I was left here alone.”

Horatio knows what it is to be left alone, to be left in the midst of a group of dead with absolutely no one to turn to for help, but he doesn’t comment. He’s already said much more than he’d originally wanted to.

“Those are beautiful statues,” he says after a while, hoping to change the subject to something more lighthearted.

Benvolio looks up at them dully. “It’s my cousin and the Capulet girl. The families put them up shortly after they killed themselves. They’re supposed to be a representation of peace or something along those lines.”

Horatio could hit himself for his utter lack of tact. Surely he could have at least _read the sign_ in front of the statues before commenting on them so thoughtlessly.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, but Benvolio brushes away his apology.

“You’re not the first one to talk to me about them. We get a lot of visitors here.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes, quite a few, especially now that the feud’s over and things are safer. Do you know, there was this man the other day who was absolutely _intent_ on hearing the whole story. He said he was writing tragedies, so of course I had to tell him everything exactly as it happened. I always do.”

“You’re a storyteller as well?” says Horatio, for that’s what he’s become in the months since Hamlet’s death, a storyteller who’s only ever been able to tell one story. The story of Hamlet has haunted him relentlessly.

Perhaps it will never truly leave him again.

Although now that he thinks about it, he doesn’t really _want_ it to. Horatio doesn’t know who he’d be without Hamlet’s story anymore. He’d been charged to tell it, and maybe just because he’s not in Denmark anymore doesn’t mean he needs to stop talking about Hamlet. As of now, it’s the only thing that seems to help him face the otherwise unendurable grief.

Benvolio glances at Horatio quizzically. “I suppose you could call me a storyteller if you like, but I simply believe everyone should know what really happened .”

Horatio nods briefly. Benvolio’s quite similar to him, really. Both of them had lived through terrible things. Both of them had lost friends— _best_ friends. And yet here both of them were, still making sure everyone knew what had actually taken place—still telling of tragedies.

 _And in this harsh world, draw thy breath in pain to tell my story_ , Hamlet had said.

Maybe Horatio doesn’t have to be done with Hamlet’s story quite yet. Maybe it's better that way.

“Benvolio?” he says softly.

“Yes?”

“Do you think you could take me to the man who’s writing tragedies?”

“I think I can help you find him,” replies Benvolio. “Why?”

“Well,” Horatio says, in the same quiet tone as before, “I believe I’ve got a story to tell him.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> It's probably worth noting that all the dialogue isn't in Early Modern (i/e: Shakespearean) English; I was afraid I'd horribly screw it up somehow and it would be at odds with the rest of the story's prose.
> 
> Thank you for reading!! :)


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